


Ceaselessly

by Cas_Wings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, Homeless Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal Activities, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Making Love, Poor Castiel, Porn With Plot, Prohibition, Rich Dean, Roaring Twenties, Summer Love, Summer Romance, Underage Drinking, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:16:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cas_Wings/pseuds/Cas_Wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Castiel, hungry and out of a home stumbles upon the property of one John Winchester, he meets the business tycoon's son, Dean. Beginning as a simple offer of help to get the raggedy boy back on his feet, Dean's relationship with Castiel soon blossoms in the heat of the Kansas summer, finding himself falling utterly and hopelessly in love. But with the crushing weight of his father's expectation upon his shoulders to continue the family business, will Dean be able to give himself fully to save Castiel from a past that haunts him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stumble

The grass tickled his fingertips as he walked, the expensive shoes he wore creating small indentations in the moist dirt below. The small, almost hidden space he came upon moments later was his favorite. Birch trees shaded nearly everything except the babbling creek, which often glinted happily in the warmth of the sun, and the grass remained soft the entire year until winter took its toll. It was a place of refuge for Dean Winchester, a place to escape the stiff, the prim, and the proper: it was a place to be himself by himself.

Sighing, the seventeen year old removed his leather shoes and rolled up his white Egyptian cotton trousers to step into the cool water. At its deepest, it only came up to his mid-calf, providing the perfect way to cool himself under the weight of the warm, sticky air around him. Wiggling his toes as tiny minnows swam by, Dean smiled softly, letting silence wash away all the business jargon his father had tried to instill within him that very morning. He didn't want to go into the family's long held company, it never felt right for him and was never as enthralling to him as his it was to his father. However, he didn't have a choice, a fact he'd known from the time he was eleven.

But here, a cool breeze carding its fingers through his short hair, all those worries and stresses were gone. Here, all he had to think about was the sensations around him, the sound of the birds in the trees, the creek washing over his legs, the rustling of the brush to his right- Snapping his gaze to the source of the unusual sound, Dean backed out of the creek slowly, afraid of getting caught. He always told his father he was going out to study away from the stifling heat inside the house, and getting caught with his feet in the water and his books and lunch sitting untouched behind him would evoke a punishment he didn't wish to think about.

However, instead of his father or some animal emerging from the brush, a stranger appeared instead. "Can I help you?" Dean blurted out before he could stop himself, licking his lips as he stood taller to make up for the ridiculous sight he must've made.

A head adorned with an unbelievably dirty mop of black hair snapped up at his words, frightened blue eyes meeting his green. "Um," the boy said, voice gravelly from disuse before he cleared his throat, "I was just looking for a place to get a drink."

"Well this is private property," Dean replied, hating how snobby he suddenly sounded as his heart returned from his stomach to his chest, the fear of being caught replaced by hesitant curiosity as to where this stranger had emerged from.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize. The road is so close, I didn't think-" the blue eyed boy replied, gesturing behind him in his rushed explanation as he backed away, gaze lingering for half a second on the cold, clear water. "I'll go."

Dean, at the stranger's longing glance to the water, instantly felt poorly and shook his head. "Wait, I didn't mean it like that," he said quickly, "you just surprised me is all, I've never seen someone back here before." He rubbed the back of his neck, gesturing to the water with his free hand. "If you need a drink, by all means- it's hot today."

The boy, who seemed to be about his age, nodded with a grateful look before dropping to his knees to scoop up some of the cold water, sucking it up as if he hadn't had a drink for days. And, by the looks of him, dressed in rags and barely-there shoes, Dean surmised he probably hadn't. "You, um, are you traveling?"

The boy looked up quickly, almost as if a feral animal would at a sudden sound, and shrugged, leaning back on his heels to catch his breath from the long drink. "Not really. I go from place to place," he replied, embarrassed at his state in the presence of such a well put together person.

Dean looked away uncomfortably for a second at the pained look that welled for half a second in the boy's blue eyes, nodding. "I live just up the hill there," he said, unsure of what else to reply as a pregnant pause rested between them. "I'm Dean, by the way."

"Castiel."

"That's not one you hear everyday."

A hint of a smile playing around the corner of his lips, Castiel's bony shoulders shrugged slightly. "I suppose."

Unsure of what else to say, Dean pointed a thumb behind himself as a pant leg threatened to fall into the water below. "I've got some lunch with me. If you've got enough time to stop, you can have some."

Castiel's eyes, framed by dirty sun tanned skin and deep dark circles, nearly went wide at the prospect of food he hadn't been offered for at least three days. "I have enough time," he replied a little too quickly, trying to act nonchalant as he crossed the small creek, no care taken to roll up his pant legs. They could probably do with a washing, anyway, he thought with slight distaste: the other boy looked so /clean/, he would probably be repulsed if he got too close. So, Castiel kept his distance, sitting a good three feet away as Dean unpacked the small lunch.

"Here," Dean said once he'd divided the portions, purposefully giving the other boy more. He looked like he certainly needed it.

Castiel gave Dean a short, immensely grateful smile and reached the distance to take his half of the cold chicken sandwich, an apple, and a small piece of chocolate cake, which he set aside for last. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had sweets, let alone  _chocolate_. It was as if stumbling across this boy was a feverish dream, brought on by the sweltering heat and pang of emptiness in his belly that never seemed to leave.

Dean watched in rapt attention as Castiel took a small bite of his sandwich, muscles tense and face concentrated as if he was simultaneously trying to savor the moment and keep himself from eating the whole thing in one bite.

"You haven't had much to eat in a while, have you?" The Winchester asked suddenly, sympathy in his loaded question.

Castiel looked down to his shoes at the question, scowling internally at the tip of his big toe sticking traitorously from the tip of his too-small shoe. "Not really," he replied, an ashamed flush creeping across the back of his neck. "Haven't had the time."

Dean nodded, a silent agreement not to question the other boy's excuse clear in his eyes. "Well, hey, if you wanted to stick around 'til tomorrow," he began, wondering what he was doing offering such graciousness to a mere stranger, "I could bring you food and water and things like that before you move on. My old man doesn't really take kindly to charity or anything, he thinks if people work hard they'll get what they need no matter what. Doesn't really like visitors in the house, either." He paused, clearing his throat. "But I could still bring you stuff, if you wanted. Just so you'll be ready to go where ever you're heading or something."

Castiel stared at Dean for a long while, swallowing around the small tightness in his throat. Kindness was so foreign to him by then it was almost difficult to fathom the offer. However, once the other boy stopped himself from rambling, Castiel found himself nodding eagerly, sucking a bit of luscious chocolate frosting from his finger hungrily. "I- That would be wonderful. Just 'til I move on," he confirmed, voice meek and thankful.

Dean felt himself smile broadly, popping the last bit of sandwich into his mouth. Helping others always lifted his spirits. "Then it's a plan." Glancing to the waning sun, he paused, realizing how late he'd actually stayed out. "Look," he said regrettably, standing to smooth his clothing, slipping his leather shoes back on in the process, "I've got to get going. Do you have a place to sleep tonight? I can be by tomorrow afternoon."

Castiel tried to keep the disappointment from his face and automatically nodded, the lie he he gave in response one he was used to. "Yes, I have a place to sleep."

Dean, although he was less than convinced, could see Castiel was trying to keep a brave, unembarrassed facade and relented silently. "Nifty. Um, see you tomorrow?"

"See you," Castiel replied, smiling gently at the boy in front of him.

* * *

"Where have you been?"

Dean tried to keep from shrinking away from his father, instead standing tall upon the marble floors like he was always instructed. "I'm sorry, I got caught up studying."

John sighed, lips creasing in slight disbelief and disappointment that glimmered just beneath the surface of his features. "I hope it'll help you, then. We have that party coming up in a few weeks and I want to make a good impression with these men. They may be potential stock holders, and I want you on the level at all times."

Nodding numbly, Dean adjusted the book under his arm, itching to head upstairs for a bit of quiet before what he was sure would be a nearly solitary dinner filled with talk about jobs and money with his father. "I know, I'll try my best."

With that, Dean turned to walk up the double staircase, the confident, worry free lightness his shoulders had previously possessed gone, replaced by a slumped appearance that was only ever brought on by dwelling in his lavish home.

* * *

Castiel, as night fell, laid out his tattered jacket next to the creek, his head pillowed by his arm and soft blades of grass. He had a feeling Dean didn't fully believe he had a place to stay the night, but as long as he was up and awake by the afternoon there would be no getting caught in his lie. Breathing out softly as a summer-warm wind brushed over his greasy hair, Castiel let his eyes flutter shut, reveling in the fact his stomach wasn't growling as he drifted into sleep.

That night, instead of hunger or the Incident, Castiel dreamed of green eyes.


	2. Privilege

When Dean woke early the next morning, he woke to loud, boisterous voices floating up to his room. Rubbing the flat of his palm against his sandy eyes, he stood and stretched, wandering over to a fresh basin of water sitting upon his corner table. As the liquid ran in rivulets down his tired skin, Dean's thoughts turned to Castiel, who's grimy face and sunken eyes revealed both everything and nothing about his current situation.

It was curious, really, why Dean felt the sudden urge to help the other boy. Perhaps it was a feeling of guilt he held over his remaining privilege during the recent surge of job losses, or perhaps it was a simple instinct to help others. However, whatever it was, the Winchester didn't wish to question it. He was finally doing something out of his own volition, something that was kind and selfless and everything else his father seemed to sneer at. Having control of something not ruled by his family felt wonderful, as if a tiny, savored part of him was finally free from the chains pulling him into selfish monetary worship.

Following the mundane act of dressing, Dean stepped carefully downstairs, assessing the conversation his father was engaged in before entering the dining room. He could tell the difference between pleasant, positive conversation and angry, negative argument simply by John's tone. It was a skill he'd had to acquire in order to avoid being sucked into endless business negotiations and financial debates.

"The lumber industry has never been more lucrative," John said reassuringly, "but that doesn't mean I can't do a little under the table work."

"That doesn't make it right," Bobby replied gruffly, giving Dean a glance as he entered the room. "You've got a family to think about."

Dean stayed silent at that, knowing getting involved would only result in John brushing his questions under the rug, telling him the tired phrase: "you have to learn the ropes before you get to know everything". So, instead, he sat on the far end of their overly long dining table while his breakfast was served, giving the two men room to have a conversation.

Bobby had been a family friend long before Dean had come into the world. He and John had known each other for years, and when John had begun to come into money, Bobby got a share. Although he wasn't involved in the workings of the company, John always told Dean he valued Bobby like a brother, and said he showed that respect through financial support. Although Dean loved that reasoning when he was a child, and had always loved the strong, silent company Bobby provided him through the years, he couldn't prevent a bitterness from growing within him whenever he thought of John's reasoning. It seemed all his father cared about and showed affection through was money, especially after his mother had passed, and all the money in the world couldn't have saved her.

"I do think about my family. I  _am_  thinking about my family," John defended, a tiny glint of offense in his eyes. "You know I'm bringing Dean in on the business, just like he's always wanted. He's going to have everything he could ever need, and then some. Isn't that right, son?"

Dean, brought out of his thoughts by John's address, nodded automatically, glancing to Bobby for only half a second in his 'agreement'. If he looked any longer, he knew the older man would see the lie in his eyes. Bobby had always been in tune to how he was truly feeling. "Yeah, I gue-"

"You see?" John cut him off, eyes welling with pride and something so close to love Dean could almost mistake it for the real thing, had that look ever cropped up elsewhere other than discussions about his inheritance of the company. "My boy is going to be the best businessman this world has ever seen."

Bobby sighed, relenting the conversation with only a slight bit of hesitance. "Alright, you win," he replied, gaze catching softly for a moment on their maid, Ellen, as she cleared dirty dishes cluttering the table. "Anyway, I should get going."

"As should I," John replied, expression once again passive as he looked to Dean. "I'll be out all day, I've got a few things to work out. Don't forget your studying today, I don't want you talking like a fool at the party."

Dean nodded, ignoring the pang of hurt at his father's words. "I won't forget," he confirmed, raising his hand in a small wave as Bobby exited the room.

As soon as he heard the car start up out front that signaled John's exit, Dean headed for the kitchen. "Wait a second," he said hurriedly as Ellen began scraping what hadn't been eaten into the garbage.

Ellen looked up, setting the food back on the counter. "Didn't get enough at breakfast?"

Dean shrugged, deciding to play along to avoid any suspicion. "I'm going for a walk and wanted to take some in case I got hungry again."

Grabbing a paper bag, Ellen glanced out the window as she packed a portion of leftovers. "It would be good to get some fresh air. This house gets so stuffy in the summer, maybe I'll let it air while your father is out."

"Yeah, that might be good. Thanks."

"That's what I'm here for," Ellen replied, going back to her cleaning. "Now get a wiggle on, it's a beautiful day."

Dean, the paper bag clutched in his clean, soft hand, made it to the foyer before he hesitated. Then, expression thoughtful, he turned and headed back upstairs.  
  


* * *

  
Castiel had woken that morning to a small brown spider crawling along his hand. Used to various insects and arachnids resting upon his person by then, he'd simply brushed the creature away and risen, leaving an imprint in the tall grass.

Still ashamed of his lie to Dean about having a place to stay the night, he squatted down, barely registering the routine growl of his stomach as he ran his fingers through the green earth, erasing any evidence of his lie. Licking his chapped lips, he ignored the uncomfortable realization that he was used to covering up lies, and instead opted to relieve himself.

Once he'd finished up, he took a long drink from the cool creek, avoiding his reflection's eyes as he did so. He couldn't stand to look at himself anymore, not since-

"Castiel?"

Jumping at the unexpected sound of his name, Castiel whipped around, sighing in relief when Dean filled his vision. Unsuprisingly, he looked even sharper than yesterday. His golden brown hair was parted and combed to the left side, a small detail that would've gone unnoticed had the rest of his appearance been less than perfect. But the other boy looked clean and pristine in every way, from his white button up to his tan suit vest and trousers. Even his brown leather shoes (different ones from the day previous) matched the ensemble. "I thought you wouldn't be here until the afternoon."

Dean smiled sheepishly, shrugging as best he could with a bulky knapsack slung over his right shoulder. "My father is gone for the day, he won't know I'm out here instead of studying." Uncomfortable silence filled the air following his explanation, almost as if Castiel sensed Dean's disappointment in the way John treated him.

"So, anyway," Dean said, setting out the items he'd brought, "I thought this stuff might be helpful when you move on to where you're going."

Castiel had a passing feeling that Dean knew he didn't have a set destination, but didn't linger on it for long, for his mind was soon possessed by awe and an instantly overwhelming sense of gratitude. There, laid before him lavishly (and yet so simply) was a bag full of food, two brand new three piece suits, one black, one tan, two white button down shirts, three silk ties, one black, one brown, and one grey, a pair of black leather shoes, two pairs of black socks, a new bar of soap, one toothbrush, a fresh tube of toothpaste, one hand towel, a comb, a razor, one crystal tumbler, and, to carry it all, a large knapsack.

"I didn't see you with anything when we met, so I thought I'd bring more than just food. I won't feel bad if you don't take some of it, I just figured more was better than less..." Pausing, Dean looked to Castiel in concern, for his eyes had become shiny with tears. "I didn't mean to offend you," he said quickly, stepping forward in an aborted move of comfort, "I just thought-"

Castiel shook his head, swallowing uselessly around the lump in his throat that impeded his speech. "No, I-" he tried to reply, taking in a shaky breath through his nose as he met Dean's concerned eyes, shaking his head. "I haven't had anyone help me in a very long time. This is so much, you don't-," he explained, voice teetering on the edge of breakage. "You don't even know me."

Finally understanding, Dean stepped forward, leading Castiel gently down to the ground so he could sit. "It's okay, it's not that much," he began, stopping himself short when he heard his own voice.  _It's not that much_. Evidently, it was. The everyday things Dean took for granted, things he had always had an overabundance of, Castiel obviously valued and treasured, causing the Winchester pause to look at his privileged status.

He was a  _snob_. A rich, ungrateful, pompous  _ass_ , just like the nameless, faceless businessmen he filtered through talking to at every party his father hosted. He was no better than them, he realized with a sinking feeling. No better.

"But it is," Castiel replied shakily before Dean could correct himself, forgetting to be self conscious about the way he looked (and probably smelled) in his close proximity to Dean, instead focusing on the massive gift he'd just been given. "This is more than enough, I can't- Thank you," he said, meeting the other boy's eyes. "Thank you."


	3. Hands

After Castiel had calmed in the face of the immense gift he was given, he'd stood, packing everything except the white button down, black trousers, the (now his) pair of black socks, the shoes, the towel, the bar of soap, and, although he had only a patchy smattering of soft hair along his jaw, the razor. "Do you mind if I clean up before I eat?"

"By all means," Dean replied quickly, stepping away to sit beneath a nearby tree, awkwardly turning to grant Castiel his privacy. He hoped the other boy didn't mind his presence, and, face burning red, realized asking after he'd already sat in silence would be more uncomfortable than simply holding his place.

Castiel watched Dean for a few moments once he'd turned around, eyes lingering on the nape of his neck, mapping the flecks of freckles and small wisps of hair he had failed to notice before. Then, without another word, he turned and grabbed the items he needed, carrying them reverently to the small creek.

Disrobing out in the open felt strange at first, but once he'd stepped into the clean water, Castiel found his modesty gone. Splashing himself, he wasted no time in running the softly scented soap along the entirety of his body, reveling in the way dirty suds fell away from his body to reveal clean skin he hadn't seen in ages. After carefully shaving his face and neck, Castiel dunked his head under the water, washing his hair twice before stepping out.

He dried himself slowly, amazed at the softness of the small towel. All the towels he'd ever used, even before It happened, had never been as soft as the one he was using. Dean must have been astonishingly rich. Ignoring the embarrassment he still felt at the poor state he had been in when the other boy first saw him, Castiel finally rubbed his hair dry and dressed himself. The clothes were incredibly well made, and obviously specifically tailored to fit Dean, for in the wrists and ankles they were slightly too long. However, the shoes fit perfectly, and to finally step into a pair that supported his feet felt amazing.

Smiling down at himself, Castiel looked to Dean, who was fiddling with a small bunch of lilac flowers. "I'm finished."

Dean stood at Castiel's words, turning to face him. "How did everything fi-" he began, the words dying on his lips at the vision before him. Gone were the tattered rags, and gone was the layer of filth upon Castiel's skin, replaced by clean new clothes and fresh skin that seemed to glow under the soft morning sun. Instead of hair weighed down by dirt and grease, shiny black locks now covered the boy's head, bringing out his bright, happy looking blue eyes. Stunned, all Dean could do was stare, taking in every small detail with a level of interest he'd never felt for another person.

Castiel shifted under the weight of Dean's gaze, a blush creeping up the back of his neck. "Everything is aces, Dean," he said quietly, licking his lips subconsciously as the Winchester met his eyes. "Just perfect."

"Swell," Dean replied softly, breaking the moment by looking to Castiel's bag of food. "So, um, you gonna eat that or should I?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Castiel stuttered after a moment, the blush moving to his cheeks as he grabbed the bag, sitting on the grass quickly. "Thanks."

"It's no problem," Dean replied, letting out a breath he felt he'd been holding in for too long as he sat across from the other boy. "So where're you headed, anyway?"

Castiel paused at the question, a piece of buttered toast held carefully between his thumb and forefinger. "I don't really know," he answered truthfully, knowing Dean had already seen through his lie the day previous. "I don't have many options."

Dean nodded silently, unsure how he could possibly respond. "Well, you know, if you need to, you could hang around here 'til you figured out what to do. I come down here a lot, bringing extra food when I do wouldn't make much of a difference."

"I couldn't do that," Castiel said quickly, looking down to his lap. "I do appreciate what you've done for me, but you've done more than enough, more than what I deserve. I don't mind moving on, I'll find my way somewhere."

Dean was silent then, disappointment coloring his features as a new (yet old) feeling of loneliness swept over him. "At least stay 'til the end of the week. You look tired."

Castiel glanced around thoughtfully at the peaceful, protected place he'd been offered, and at the suddenly new feeling of being full despite having some food left, his decision was made. "I guess resting here wouldn't be a bad idea. Just until the end of the week."

Dean beamed at the other boy's response, resting easy against the grass in satisfaction. "Then it's set. I don't know if I can get down here everyday, but I'll do my damnedest. My father's been working in the city lately, so he might be gone more than usual."

"Your father doesn't like you going outside?"

"He says now and again spending leisure time outside is fine, but that I should be spending it doing something worthwhile like learning horseback riding or car driving. All the other time he wants me studying or helping him with the company."

Nodding, Castiel finished off his food and crumpled the small bag in his fist, looking to Dean with such studious intensity it almost made Dean squirm. "You don't want to follow your father in his endeavors, do you?"

Dean did shift at that, a strange sensation crawling up the back of his spine. Nobody had ever really asked him before, and to have Castiel, a boy he barely knew, see he hated the way his life was being dictated for him felt exposing. Was it really that obvious? "No, I don't want to," he admitted, feeling his heart sink deep within him at the admission he'd held in his entire life. "I hate it."

"Hate is certainly a strong feeling," Castiel replied, voice filled with an underlying tone that seemed to say: ' _I know hate. I've felt it before, and I know you're feeling it now.'_

"Yeah, I know. But I do. Money has turned my old man into a brooding, greedy bastard. Sometimes I think he only cares about me because I'll be the one carrying on his precious company."

"Fathers are almost always selfish."

Dean looked to Castiel then, surprised at the small tidbit of information that made him seem like that much less of a stranger. "You've got problems with your father, too?"

Castiel's jaw clenched at the question, his fingers twitching in a nearly automatic response to close his hands into fists. "Yeah," he replied, immense sadness coloring the undertone of his angered words. "He was awful."

Dean, seeing he'd hit a major sore spot, panicked ever so slightly and reached forward, letting his hand rest upon Castiel's. "Hey, don't let me be a wet blanket. We don't have to talk about it. Here, let's can that subject," he said quickly, searching for anything to say. "When's your birthday?"

Castiel calmed at Dean's touch, his fear-induced trembling abated by the warmth of the hand suddenly over his. "The tenth of July. I'll be seventeen this year."

"Hey, only a month away," Dean replied, hiding his surprise at how young Castiel was to be out on his own already. Perhaps it had to do with something the boy's father did; it was obviously a bothersome topic. Brushing off the uncomfortable considerations of the many issues it might've been, Dean shifted his fingers to a more comfortable position subconsciously, not fully realizing he was still in contact with Castiel.

Castiel didn't take much notice the contact either, and instead nodded, a soft smile coming to his lips. "Yeah. How about you?"

"January twenty-fourth, I'll be eighteen."

"Gonna do anything special?"

Dean thought back to previous birthdays, all empty and ceremonial just for the sake of tradition, often put on by Ellen or Bobby due to his father's 'forgetfulness'. "I don't think so. Not this time."

The two boys spent the next few hours talking, their conversation ranging from childhood memories (which were vastly different in some aspects and eerily similar in others) to dreams, hopes, and aspirations despite their current binding circumstances. And, through it all, their hands had slowly shifted until they were clasped together. The contact felt natural, and although they were nearly strangers that morning, by the end of their day they both felt closer to acquaintances. Their fingers had eventually broken apart when Dean had stood to leave, but no awkwardness stemmed from it. They simply said their goodbyes, and that was that.

At its core, their tentative hand holding was an innocent act of a slowly growing friendship, a pure gesture of companionship the two boys needed more than they knew.


	4. Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger warning** This chapter features child abuse. Although Dean is nearly eighteen, he is still underage, and therefore it still qualifies as such. Read with caution, lovelies!

Dean returned home later that same afternoon, a smile on his face and a lightness to his step. Having something to himself felt good, almost as if by helping Castiel he was silently giving his father a piece of his mind.

Whistling happily, Dean grabbed an apple from the kitchen, taking a large bite as he wandered into the parlor where Ellen sat shining silver.

"Have a good walk?"

Dean sat on a nearby chair, swallowing his food before responding. "Yeah, it was really nice today."

"See anything special?"

"Boy did I ever," Dean said, secretively finding the game of half-truths thrilling as his mind's eye filled with the image of Castiel's clean, shining face.

Ellen smiled. "Well it's good to see you happy. Haven't seen that in a while."

"Yeah, well, ya know."

Ellen nodded solemnly, letting the room grow silent for a few minutes before she spoke once more. "Your father called. He said he wouldn't be home until the day of the party, something about negotiations going wrong."

Dean felt his heart jump in his chest at her words, but kept his face a stoic mask, shrugging. "Alright," he said softly, something in the back of his mind telling him his father was staying away for different reasons. Every six months or so he'd disappear for a week, and when he finally arrived home would stink of expensive perfume and whiskey, his appearance wild and unkempt. When Dean was younger, he didn't understand why his father came back looking so sallow, but now he was older and knew of unspoken deeds, he comprehended.

However, instead of disappointment or bitterness filling him, Dean instead felt excitement and joy, for this timing was perfect- he could spend as long as he wanted outside with Castiel, and with just a murmured request of disclosure to the servant staff, not a breath of it would reach his father.

"Sorry kiddo," Ellen said softly, breaking his thoughts as she patted him on the shoulder with one hand, the other full of perfectly cleaned cutlery. "But hey, look at it as a break from studying. I won't tell him if you won't."

Dean gave Ellen a weak smile, keeping up the ruse. "Thanks"

"Anytime."

* * *

Over the course of the next few days, Dean and Castiel met everyday, their hands never straying far from one another. On the first day the grasping habit began, both had been a bit hesitant, as both were unsure if the previous instance was just a one off. However, once their fingers twined together over lunch, the practice was sealed into comforting normalcy.

On the first day John was gone, Dean brought Castiel a proper blanket and pillow. As always, Castiel had been immensely grateful, revealing a memory about a childhood blanket he'd carried around until the age of six when he'd been forced to get rid of the few tattered strings it had become.

On the second day, Dean showed Castiel how to make a necklace out of daisies, commenting briefly on how it had been his favorite thing to do as a child, as it always reminded him of time spent with his mother. He didn't mention her passing.

The third day brought boredom with it, and as a solution, Dean suggested a walk. Fifteen minutes in, the two boys had arrived at a pond that the creek ran into, prompting them to strip down to their underclothes for a swim. Both ended up burned by the harsh sun, and both couldn't bring themselves to care.

The fourth day was spent talking over a meal of expensive cheeses, fruits, and crackers. It was simple, allowing them each to forget their individual struggles.

On the fifth day, Dean helped Castiel wash his laundry. Somehow they both ended up with soap suds in their hair and smiles on their faces.

The sixth day, Dean didn't come to see Castiel.

The sixth day, John arrived home early, just as beaten down as Dean expected him to be. Angry and ill when Dean greeted him, he simply rubbed his eyes and ordered him up to his room for the day. Fearful of consequence, Dean had followed the instruction, worry consuming him: what if Castiel decided to leave?

Castiel stayed. However, feelings of confusion and anxiety nagged at him. Dean had hinted briefly about problems with his father: what if something had gone wrong? Dean didn't deserve to walk the path he did; Dean didn't deserve anything even remotely close to the Incident.

Keeping a careful eye on the barely worn path of flattened grass the other boy walked down each time he visited, Castiel waited the entire day, vigilant for his friend's approach until nightfall.

He headed to bed not long after, hunger gnawing at him for the first time in days.

The following morning, Dean was greeted downstairs by news he'd learned never to hope for: a letter had arrived from his younger brother. Excitedly retrieving it from Ellen, the rest of the mail ignored, he tore the envelope open, fingers nearly shaking as he revealed the words within.

_Dean,_

_I have to begin this letter with an apology; I know I haven't contacted you in a while. I just didn't want him to get angry if our conversations became too frequent. Anyway, I've been missing you. Everything's still swell with Jessica and I, boy am I stuck on her. Her family has been so kind taking me in, I'm attending an actual school and even found a job at a library in town. How have you been? Is he still training you for the business? I wouldn't be surprised if he was. I'm telling you, you should come join me. It would be great to have the two of us together again, it really would. Oh, and before I forget to tell you, we've all recently moved to a new house, so please note the new address below-_

"What've you got there?"

Snapped out of his reading, Dean's stomach dropped, his timid eyes meeting John's dark gaze. "Nothing," he answered quickly, forgetting the respectful suffix of 'sir' in his panic.

"Oh?" John asked calmly, a frown tugging down the corners of his mouth as he stepped forward, grabbing both the letter and envelope in one fell motion. "Because this doesn't look like  _nothing_ , Dean."

Dean tried to respond, but found only a helpless hint at protest escaped his lips as his father quickly read the entire letter, his eyes privy to the rest of Sam's words Dean hadn't gotten to due to the disruption.

Fingers clenching hard at the paper, John's frown deepened as he finished reading, the insult to his person within the words only adding to the injury of Dean's blatant disobedience. "What did I tell you last time?"

"That I wasn't supposed to read any more of Sam's mail. That our last correspondence was the final one."

"And even with that knowledge, you've blatantly crossed me by reading this."

Dean swallowed around a growing lump of fear in his throat, eyes fixed steadily on the half-crumpled paper in John's fist. "Yes," he replied quietly, quickly adding, "sir," when his father's fingers tightened in silent threat.

John didn't respond for a long moment, tense silence filling the large entrance hall. Then, footsteps echoing hauntingly upon the cold marble floors, John grabbed Dean by his bicep hard enough to bruise, dragging the boy through the house until they'd reached the backyard. "This rebellion act you've put on recently must stop," he said harshly, digging in his pocket to retrieve his match book.

Dean's eyes widened, the pain in his arm momentarily forgotten as he watched flame rise from the phosphorus tip of a single match. "No, don-"

His protest did nothing. In an instant the flame began consuming both paper and envelope, Sam's precious words curling under the heat before they fell to the ground below. It was horrifyingly beautiful, Dean thought absently as his tearful eyes followed the tiny pieces of ash fluttering to the ground.

"Fuck you," he whispered after a long moment, gaze trained on what was left of the paper once John threw it to the ground.

The slap against his cheek didn't register fully, his mind too consumed by panicked thoughts of Sam. He didn't know his new address, he would never be able to contact him. Hand raising to rest against the hot feeling of a welt upon his face, Dean wavered but refused to fall, his father's scolding a distant echo to his ringing ears.

"-you know what happened, you know your brother ran off with that poor flapper bitch against my say. We don't associate with people like her, he knew it and he still defied me. There's a reason I didn't go after him when he left to live with her, and for that reason you won't either."

Dean, a surge of anger rising in him, lifted his stinging eyes to confront his father. "He was only sixteen!"

"If he was old enough to dig his grave, he was old enough to lie in it!"

"Mom would've loved him no matter what-"

"Enough!" John roared, eyes flashing as he took a threatening step towards Dean, who instinctively cowered away. "This conversation is done, Dean," he continued, voice steely and cold. "Go up to your room, I don't want to see you until the party."

Dean clenched his then sore jaw, closing his eyes against a fresh surge of tears as he turned to walk back into the house.

"If you don't come down presentable and ready to make a good impression,  _so help me,_  Dean, you'll be sorry."

Dean paused, his every muscle clenched in fear and self control as he gave a quick, obedient nod. "Yes sir," he replied shakily, not turning to face his father.

A few minutes later, Dean sat numbly at the edge of his bed, a cool washcloth held to his stinging face. He could still detect the stench of burnt paper.


End file.
